


enervation

by ScatteredStarlight (Shaderose)



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Dissociation, Exhaustion, Gen, Ignore this, Kinda, Peter Parker Is Sad, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, References to Depression, Suicidal thoughts are mentioned in a question but peter doesnt have them, Tired Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark gives him said hug, Tony Stark is a good dad/mentor, blah, idk - Freeform, idk how to tag this, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27136991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaderose/pseuds/ScatteredStarlight
Summary: Peter is... tired.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 91





	enervation

**Author's Note:**

> Vent, blah

Peter is... tired.

He feels it in every inch of his body, every stretch of his muscles and twitch of his skin, every beat of his heart and function of his organs, every bloodcell and atom in his blood, in his bones, in _him_. Feels it screaming, wailing a bonechilling caterwaul that rings through his head for days on end, sometimes fading further into the background, easily ignored but still present, still _there._ Other times it's a screech that drags him through the mud and makes every other thought incomprehensible, filling his mind and making him feel... staticy. Spacey. Unaware.

Empty.

He can push through it most days, he has to. He goes to school, tries his best to pay attention in classes (even if he doesn't, he knows the material, so its fine), hangs out with his friends (who've given him weird, concerned looks lately, he must be slacking, gotta get back on his game), goes home, switches into his suit, goes patrolling for a few hours, saves some people, helps some others, goes back home, eats dinner with May, does homework and goes to bed. Wakes up the next morning, forces- drags himself out of bed, wash, rinse, repeat. Add in a few times of going to the lab a week, a hint of watching TV and more hanging out with Ned/MJ over the weekend, and you've got yourself the life of Peter Benjamin Parker. Simplistic, normalish, boring. Perfectly _fine_.

And yet.

And yet, its here, for some reason, the lingering feeling. The monster under his bed that has slowly, slowly found a way to creep out from under it, its sharp midnight black claws grasping at the wooden dowels of his bunkbed and _pulling_ , and Peter _tried_ to push it back down, to kick at it with his foot, punch at it with his hands, use his super strength to force it back down as his senses hum with a danger coming from _nowhere_ , but nothing _works_. It just slowly creeps its way up the bedsheets, slowly engulfing Peter's legs, his torso, his chest, his arms, his face until he's sucked under the churning ocean and is suffocating, his mouth open in a silent scream as his lung ache and burn and he _tries_ , tries to breathe in with no success, tries to call for help with no answer, tries to tug himself back to life with no response, his body laying still, numb, giving into the slow decay, the slow rotting of his corpse, wiltering-

"Parker?" Theres a hand, snapping three times in front of his face, and Peter blinks once, twice, before following the arm up to Mr. Starks face, his mohagony eyes narrowed playfully, one eyebrow cocked and signature smirk on his face. "Hey, there you are, welcome back to the land of the living." He sticks his arms out, does jazz hands all dramatic, and Peter knows the correct response is to snort, is to tease back and joke, but all he can do is stare, for a few moments, before raising a hand and rubbing at his eyes, scanning around the room.

He's at his internship? Somehow? Meaning it's a Tuesday, or a Thursday. He could've sworn it was a Monday, though, remembers feeling drained as he took notes in math class and longing to go back into bed like he had spent the entire day doing yesterday- or the day before? A few days ago? Peter narrows his eyes at the pair of pliers on the metal table, Mr. Starks still running commentary a faint murmur in the background as he tries to recollect all of the memories he feels like he's missing, having gone from one blink to the next, day in and day out. He was- he was in class, pushing out a breathy laugh at MJ stoic jokes, nudging back Ned's foot in a half assed game of footsie, and then- then he was here? But there must've been an in-between, must've been a part where he got from point A to point B, must've done the same thing he does everytime he has his internship days, finished school, waited for Happy, got into the car, talking to Happy, got out of the car, walked into the tower, say hi to the Megan, the receptionist, say hi to Friday, go into the elevator-

But he _doesn't_ _remember it_ , and he feels overwhelmed, all of a sudden, feels tears burn at his eyes and feels his lungs squeeze up, the constant pressure on his chest growing exponentially all of a sudden, the faint electrical hum turning into the wailing screech in his mind and making his ears ring, God how could he not remember it, he had to have done it, he had to-

Something- a rolled up ball of paper- smacks him on the side of the head, and Peter jumps.

" _Christ_ _,_ " He hears the swear faintly, as he repeatedly blinks the burning out of his eyes, before his chair is getting swiveled around rapidly to face Mr. Stark, also in a chair now, with his eyebrows crinkled together and a swirl in his eyes, wrinkles etching his forehead and around his mouth. He waves a hand. "Alright, kid, out with it. What's going on?"

Peter just watches. Wary. "...on?" His voice sounds off, even to him, scratchy and rough in a way it usually only is after a long sleep, yet wobbly, betraying all of his efforts to put on a calm facade.

If Mr. Stark catches onto it, he doesn't say anything, though his eyes do widen slightly, barely noticeable, but Peter always did notice the small things. "Yes, whats going _on_ , as in _you-_ " He points to Peter, then, his tone still teasing and playful but hinted with something else, laced with a worry that makes Peter's gut twist. "Are acting weird, and I wanna know why. Don't tell you arent-" He cuts the boy off before he can even speak, making shut his mouth closed with a click. "Happy told me you barely talked to him on the ride home, _and_ that your little pals were looking worried too." Peter wishes he could combat any of that, but he _still_ _can't_ _remember_ any of it. So, he just glances down at his hands folded into his lap, knawing at his bottom lip. A hand plops onto his knee, then, heavy and full of scars, callouses, and squeezes once. "Bud, talk to me here, whats up?"

Peter doesn't know why he says it. Whether it was the way all of the playfulness seeped out of Mr. Starks tone, leaving only raw, overwhelming concern, or the way the stone of guilt in his gut just keep growing and growing, weighing him further and further down, sinking him more and more into the murky waters, or the way he was just... so, so fucking exhausted that makes him croak out a small, quiet, almost inaudible, "I need help."

There's a pause, and then the hand squeezes again, soft, gentle, but firm, grounding. "What kinda help, kid?"

And Peter wants to tell him, longs to spill all of the feelings, all of the cards he has onto the floor so that Mr. Stark- so that _any_ _body_ _else_ could see them, could help pick them back up and rearrange them back into order again. But his tongue is heavy, all of a sudden, so so heavy, and his brain is going fuzzy, again, and before he knows it, he's leaning forward, collapsing his head onto Mr. Starks shoulder and breathing in his aftershave. Mr. Stark doesn't question it, thankfully, just wraps his arm around Peter and rubs a hand up and down his back, his thumb brushing the bone jutting out of his knee. They sit in a silence for a few beats, a few heavy breaths where Peter slowly sinking his hold, where Mr. Starks head rests gently on top of his own, until-

"A supervillian?" The older man lists, quietly, a murmur, and Peter pushes in another breath between his teeth, shakes his head once. "Bullies?" Another shake, his hair tickling Mr. Starks cheek, brushing against his collarbone. "Your humongous crush on MJ?" Normally Peter would snort, push him away, tell him to shut up with a flush on his cheeks. Another shake. The man hums, then, and shifts slightly, making Peter more comfortable and loosening the faint burn growing from the kink in his neck. "...mental?" He finally asks, then, his hand rising to play at the curls on the nape of Peter's neck. A pause, and then, finally, a nod. Peter feels like he should want to cry, whether in joy or in sadness he can't tell. He just shuts his eyes, and exhales.

"Depression?" Peter shrugs. Doesn't know how to tell him that he doesn't know _what_ this is, doesn't even know how to explain how he's feeling. He just... he just wants it to _go away_. "Suicidal thoughts?" He has to think, for a moment, before shaking his head. No, he doesn't want to die. He knows there's more to life than this, knows he has so much of the future left to see, knows that he's just... struggling, right now. But God, its still _hard_. "Okay," The man breathes, and presses a faint kiss to the crown of his head. "Okay, we can work with that. We can work with this."

He does tear up a bit, then, feeling a wave of something tasting almost like _relief_ washing over him, pushes further into Mr. Starks hold, greedily wanting more. He just holds Peter closer, running his fingers through his hair and gently easing away some tension.

He feels himself start to doze off, heavy and light all at the same time, when he hears the quiet whisper. "I got you, bubba. I got you."

And he does.


End file.
